What We Fight For
by one.twilight.sun
Summary: She didn't know what she had been fighting for until years after the war was done.


**Author's Note: I felt like there just wasn't enough fluff to the world of Katniss and Peeta. Please let me know what you think!**

**What We Fight For**

I can deal with pain. I can bear it. Growing up the way I did, I was inured to pain.

My body clenches as another contraction rolls through me. I'm gritting my teeth to hold back my scream. My hands clutch at the sides of the rollaway bed.

I hate hospitals.

The septic smell, the small beeps and chirps of machines, the unfeeling whiteness of the walls and floor, all of it, all of it makes me want to vomit. And though our hospital in District 12 is relatively new, where no black taint of _before _covers any part of it, I still cannot stand being here. Too many memories associated with rows of sick bodies, too much hurt attached to fiercely competent medics.

He knows this and his hand finds my fist at my side, unclenching the fingers so he can slip his large reassuring ones between them. His hand squeezes mine. I feel the calluses from working the ovens scrape against my own. Somehow, this helps.

_Breathe_. _Breathe_. I must remember what my mother told me. _Two __breaths __in, __one __breath __out; __two __breaths __in, __one __breath __out_. I don't actually think this makes any significant difference in how it'll affect my delivery. I suspect that she just made that up to keep my mind off of what was actually happening.

Because god, I am scared.

Just as I know pain, I know fear. Fear that I will not be able to keep my family alive, fear that today will be the day I die, fear that I will never see his face again. Oh, I am no stranger to fear.

But this feeling I have now. This is different. There is a bit of "Will I live through this" but there is mostly "What am I doing?" I've been, by turns in these months past, elated at the prospect of having a baby with _Peeta_ and in despair at what this child will face in this world. He says the baby will be safe, because we are its parents, but how does one really know?

When I ask him this, he laughs, his face breaking out into a wide smile, bright eyes twinkling back at me. Then he pulls me into that giant hug of his, the one that envelops me and surrounds me with his scent and he answers simply, "We don't. That's the beauty of having children."

I manage to open my eyes now, looking for him, though I know he's right there, holding my hand. My hair is plastered to my head in sweat, I'm breathing through each contraction as they get closer and closer. He tucks an errant strand behind my ear before cupping my face with his hand. I find strength in his gaze.

"You're doing just fine, sweetheart." His voice washes over me, like a balm to my soul.

I want to tell him something along those lines, but I've never been good with putting my feelings into words so I opt for squeezing his hand instead—except this turns in to an almost bone-crunching grip as my body clenches from head to toe and I cannot keep back the cry that escapes my throat.

His eyes widen in panic which he quickly hides with one of his smiles. "Let me go get the doctor."

I can't seem to think past each pulse through my body, it's all I can think about except that _he __had __better __not __be __leaving __me __alone_. I tug on his hand so his face is closer to mine. "No," I manage to get out between my teeth, "you stay."

I can see he's taken aback by my tone, but I don't care right now because the contractions feel they are consuming me and _he__'__s _the one who wanted this baby so badly so _he _was going to have to suffer with me.

Fortunately for us, Dr. Llewellyn chose that moment to make an appearance. She took in the death grip I had on Peeta, his panicked look and my vicious glare and noted calmly, "I think it's time."

The next hours are a blur to me though I refuse to be drugged. Not after those months of almost living for a fix, not after seeing what chemicals can do to someone. I'd rather live and experience this than ever dull my mind again.

My world shrinks down to the doctor and Peeta and this unbelievable need to _push_. I almost feel like I'm in some sporting event (one of the harmless ones that have sprung up recently), the way those two keep cheering me on.

"You're doing great, honey!"

"Alright, Katniss, now one more time. _Push!__"_

I could live without hearing that word again.

And suddenly, it's over. With one great effort, I feel the baby leave my body and slide into the waiting hands of Dr. Llewellyn. There's a moment of dreaded silence as she does something at the end of my feet. I've fallen back onto the elevated chair, exhausted, not knowing what it is I'm still waiting for except I can feel it in my fingertips and toes. An anticipation.

A thin wail cuts through the vacuum I've been immersed in and my eyes snap open as I struggle to sit back up. Peeta is there with me, his own hair a mess from the hours spent with me, but his eyes wide with wonder. We are both staring at the small moving bundle that the doctor is bringing to my arms which have automatically come up to receive her.

"Congratulations, you have a girl." Dr. Llewellyn's voice is inordinately pleased and my heart swells with pride. I think it would've done so if the baby had been a boy.

I'm surprised by the weight of the baby. She's heavier than I thought even though I have been carrying her around for almost nine months. I soak up this tiny person that has just been introduced to a whole new world. What hair she has is dark and plastered in wisps to her head, her tiny eyes are a dark, dark blue and her mouth is a perfect O. She's making these small sounds, as if testing her own voice and it's so endearing that I can't stand it. Tears start to fall as I come to realize that the baby I'm holding is _my_ daughter, mine and Peeta's baby. And she's beautiful.

Peeta's arm has come around me, his head next to mine, also looking at this small bundle of amazingness. His large hand tentatively comes up and hovers over her little head, before gently stroking her. Her head fits in the palm of his hand.

"Look what we did," he breathes. His voice is hushed, reverent.

I turn my head and rub my nose in the soft hair at the side of his head. "I know," I whisper back before looking back down at the little girl in my arms.

Iris Prim Mellark, our daughter. This is who we saved the future for.


End file.
